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“And here I thought you hated the cold, gatito,” spoke Death, in a voice so low Puss barely heard it over the morning zephyr. The looming figure lowered himself beside the cat. He was hunched forward, arms loosely situated atop his knees, and still, the wolf towered over the feline. His hood was down.
The cat found no effort within himself to flinch. His fur swayed in the winter wind, unalarmed.
The Wolf might’ve thought he’d gone unnoticed, if not for the way Puss’ ears flicked at his coarse voice.
His shoulders grew tense, gaze situated forward.
“We all have our exceptions, Muerte.”
Muerte hummed.
It really was a beautiful morning. Puss had always loved the endless nature of the badlands. No rules, no expectations, and no commitment to one, singular place; it was a world tailored for him, adventure always awaiting him and his group.
Frost covered the orange soil, the aftermath of a long night, cold and unforgiving. It glistened in the soft light of dawn’s sun, barely peeking over the distant hoodoos. Stark white highlighted the ragged edges of the rocky earth, and dipped its hidden dangers further into the pools of shadow. Puss could’ve stared all morning.
But, he had new company, and a long, hard day ahead of him.
The cat sighed, heavy with exhaustion from a sleepless night.
Death’s visit was no surprise; his portent tune had echoed through the town long before dawn, pulling Puss from his much needed sleep.
It had drifted through the mist, passed the bakery and florist, announcing its arrival at the house on the corner, one the gang had become far too familiar with. On that early morning, a wail shattered the silence from within, echoing back through the cobbled streets.
It had made Kitty gasp, Perrito whimper, Puss freeze.
They had failed.
———-
A week on the road had left the trio weary, worn and aching for proper beds, when they found the quaint little town. There was barely one road worth of buildings, but it had an inn, ale and warm food.
Winter had not been kind to its people, they soon discovered. Scars of harsh weather lined it’s houses and their residents; dilapidated structures and pale, humourless faces.
The most notable damage, however, were the abrasively vibrant flags hung above a handful of houses;
Plague.
It had shaken the town, taken a few poor souls, but they were on a steady path to recovery, with no cases in two weeks!.
On their second day in town, a man came to the inn, eyes sunken and dark, heavy as the velvet bag jangling in his grip. He’d heard of the infamous Puss in Boots and the gangs endless adventures.
But he needed their particular skills for obtaining items that didn’t belong to them, which he explained with the thud of gold against wood. He needed their thievery and deceit.
His boy was ill and bedridden, and they needed medicine, something in dangerously low stock.
Simple enough, they’d thought; plenty of merchants travelled the roads surrounding the town.
The trio agreed.
—
The second time they returned to the town was more exhausting than the first. Three arduous days finally bore the measly fruits of their labours; two vials of poppy extract and a coin purse worth of chamomile tea.
Setting foot into the house was immediately suffocating, with its drawn curtains and musty smell of sick. The feline caught sight of the boy, drenched in sweat and wheezing and far too pale; almost blue. Sores littered a face he’d recognised from their first arrival, playing on the street with the other children.
Putting the light load into that fathers hands left a heavier weight in Puss’ chest, but they needed to hold on to hope.
They needed to, for the sake of the boy. Their work had to amount to something.
And-
—-
A church bell sounded from behind the two, it’s metallic thrums jolted Puss from his minds wandering, back to the roof.
The suns light baked it’s old shingles, climbing higher into the sky.
And then he had died, quietly in the night. A swift departure. No grand ending, no miraculous recovery.
Just, gone.
He’d never see a sunrise again.
Puss wiped his eyes, breathing as deeply as he could. All this mess for a child he couldn’t even name.
“It’s a shame, coming back to this town,” sighed Death, “two weeks with no cases. Mateo was a strong boy, good to his mama.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion of the past week curling around his reasoning, waking up what he thought was a numb mind, or maybe he just felt stupid, but something made the cats pulse thump.
“You speak of him like a loss you had to suffer, and not the one who took him.” The words came out bitter enough that he had to spit them.
Death tilted his head towards the cat, whose vision was traced by a glowing, unfaltering red.
Bright red sores on grey, trembling skin. Puss could not look him in the eyes.
“A child, barely twelve, and you e-”
“He was ten.”
“-And you ended his life, like he was nothing.” He was standing, but his shoulders slumped beneath that last, foul word.
Nothing.
All that fighting and searching and finding, for nothing but an empty body and broken parents. He’d never seen a man wail as loud and agonising as that father.
His throat hurt in the icy air.
People spoke on the streets below, muffled and far away. Going about their lives, who gave them the right?
“I did not end it.”
Puss turned to Death with creased eyebrows, Death returned the eye contact.
The cat did not yield to his ever-sharp eyes; Death’s stare held no daggers.
“Huh?”
“I don’t end lives, gato, that is not my job,” he spoke into the wind, teeth glinting in the sunlight.
“But you are Death-”
“Yes, Death. Not Murder or Killer. I do not control how people die. I am what awaits them after Life, I simply,’ he made a vague gesture, “guide them where they must go next.”
He glared at the Wolf, who regarded his expression in stolid silence. there was no scowl, not even a frown, upon the canines face; he did not bare his teeth, or grin or laugh. His painfully red stare was all the cat received.
“How anyone could follow you is something I don’t understand.”
“Hm?”
“A terrific white wolf, anyone with sense would run the other way. Would fight to stay away.”
Death looked at his empty hands, and back at the desert. He sighed, some sort of amused expression pulled at his mouth; Puss never would’ve noticed.
“Still so much you don’t understand, gatito,” he stood, stretched, “I thought that might be the case for you.”
The wolf leant against the chimney. Morning had truly started, and the noise of the town rose steadily with the sun. Puss glanced behind him, to the street, and the black-clad figures who bustled around. No colour, no humour.
They were preparing their goodbyes.
“To you, I am a wolf. The Wolf,” his voice demanded the cats attention once more.
“I am an omen. A terrible, blood-thirsty demise. I am Nothingness,” Puss flinched, “that is what Death means to Puss in Boots.”
Clouds littered the horizon, ambling about like content sheep. They captured the Wolf’s attention, who watched them glide by in all his stolidity.
“What are you saying?”
Emotions churned up the cats stomach, and the vague speech did nothing to help settle its lurching whirlpool.
“I am Death, as inevitable as Life. And, like Life, I am not the same for everyone.”
“…alright?”
“Mateo was a boy, Puss. Life's many pathways trailed far ahead of him, barely explored, he had no time to fear the chase of its end. He had no chance to learn how to fear me.”
“He was too young for any of this,” said Puss, with a dry tongue and heart full of sorrow.
“Time makes those choices, not you or anyone else,” said Death, matter-of-factly.
The cat swallowed thickly and sighed; it never was easy, hearing what every atom of his very being didn’t want to think about. Realising there was more to the universe than his own truth, realising there were other people, other beating hearts and thinking minds, all around him. Millions of stories, beginning and ending.
Of course Muerte couldn’t be the Big Bad Wolf in them all.
Death watched the sky patiently, leaving the cat to collect his thoughts. Or, perhaps, he was simply done talking.
But puss wasn’t.
“What, uh, what was it like?” the morning was warming up, “When he..left, what was it like?”
The clouds had long since drifted away, leaving an open desert sky once more.
“It was like a late night in the lounge room of his home. Full of family, blood and found. He’d always try to stay up, and he’d always fall asleep in his mama’s lap. It was like being carried upstairs to bed by his papa, soft orange lights, hearing music and laughter while he was tucked away for a good, gentle sleep. It was a kiss on the forehead.”
Muerte seemed to pause.
“It was warmth and home and sleep. It was what I believe you call Love, or, at least, the memory of it.”
“hm.”
Puss was grateful for his hats wide brim, and the way it protected his burning eyes from prying eyes. Voices called beneath the building, they were saying his name.
The wolf tilted his head, hood casting his face in shadow; the cat didn’t recall seeing him pull it up. “Another one of our visits brought to an end, gatito.”
Kitty and Perrito were looking for him.
“Go be with your family, Puss,” The Wolf stood tall once again.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
“What do I do for the parents, the town?”
“You give them warmth.”
He whistled, and when Puss looked again, Death was gone. His tune danced along the breeze, flowing along into the wide open plains of nowhere and everywhere.
“Until next time, Muerte.”
The melody felt that little bit less harrowing.
—-
In the early afternoon, two cats and a little dog huddled close in the rafters of a church, where the hymns of farewell undulated through the building. Stained glass painted the sun in kind colours, and bathed the people below in soft light, as if the building itself knew its occupants were grieving.
They hugged each other tightly, no jocular comment was made on the glistening eyes they shared. These tears were not to be taken lightly.
——
The sun climbed behind the rocky pillars of the badlands, tucking itself in beneath a blanket of frost, for another nights slumber. Risen and set, the cycle of things.
The sunset was beautiful that evening, colouring the roaming clouds pink, promising mystery out in that endless expanse. Though, tonight, green feline eyes did not bear witness to its supernatural beauty. Nobody watched the clouds float by.
——
That night was cold, as it had been for the past week. The trio found themselves back on that doorstep. They were cleaned, dressed in their best attire. Perrito held a bundle of flowers in his jaw.
Puss hesitated, and before he or Kitty could knock, the door opened gently, orange light illuminating the little animals.
It was the boys mama, who smiled kindly at them, in spite of the deep bruises beneath her red eyes. She took the flowers from Perrito with an earnest “Thank you”, before tenderly ushering them out of the cold, offering food and drink. Puss felt like a kitten again, her actions were so very motherly.
It made his stomach drop.
Chatter sounded from the main room, where townsfolk filled the space. The hearth was ablaze, candles littered the tables and staircase. The florist had brought bunches of flowers, placed neatly in vases and buckets and jars. Fresh, warm pastries and breads from the baker lay on trays for all to have. The smell made Puss’s mouth water, but he couldn’t imagine eating.
The more he looked around, the more he found the room to be filled with gifts from the town; books and toys, paper banners and chocolates and so, so many flowers.
People surrounded the parents on all sides, nestling them under homemade quilts on the soft chairs. Everyone cried, everyone laughed, everyone sat quietly in the tacit silence. Puss did his best to contribute to their comforting, but did not want to overstep any boundaries, so he simply watched.
The town held Mateo’s parents up, and would remain their crutches when the worst of the grief struck. When they'd begin to feel emptiness of his bedroom, and the nothingness seeped into their lives.
But for now, this was something.
For now, they wept together. A girl with braids played a sad, soft song on her guitar. Puss held kitty and Perrito close, watching the small world before them. It was warm, melancholically comforting. His gaze drifted beyond the gathering, upstairs, to the closed door crowded with flowers.
He sighed, wondering if their conversations could be heard from all the way up there.